


moving house: the ultimate friendship ruiner

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, gender more like [indistinct sounds]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: or the one where Newt and Hermann knew each other as kids, had crushes on each other, and then lost touch for over a decade before meeting back up at a scientific convention
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	moving house: the ultimate friendship ruiner

“Dad’s going to kill me,” Newt says, glumly, digging the toe of his boot into the dirt, and drags his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck—not so short, now, actually, that he comes to think of it; he should give himself a haircut, or ask Hermann to do it for him, or something.

Hermann lets out a wordless grunt. “You should have thought about that  _ before _ you agreed,” he says, but it’s more exasperated than upset. His shivers have subsided since Newt pulled off his jacket and insisted Hermann put it on, but his lips are a bit blue. “Now, though, we’re stuck ten kilometres from either of our houses and we’ve just missed the last bus of the day.”

That’s a fair point, Newt supposes; this is sort of his fault, anyway, for forgetting to check the bus schedule. And it’s probably better to be  _ verbally _ flayed by his dad than be  _ physically _ flayed (or near-about, anyway) had Hermann called Lars.

“Your dad’s a dick,” he says; apropos nothing. Hermann, used to his seemingly unprompted leaps, just hums. “I mean, c’mon,” Newt continues, “the dude is like, like,  _ the _ worst candidate for a father.”

Hermann lets out a silent huff. “Cheers to  _ that _ ,” he says, “sometimes I think it would have made things easier if he had had three sons and a daughter rather than two of each, but then I remember how he’s awful to  _ anyone _ who doesn’t fit exactly into what he wanted them to be.”

Newt hums. “Yeah, I’d imagine all of  _ this _ isn’t exactly what he was angling for when the doctor said  _ it’s a girl! _ ” His tone is dry; but it makes Hermann laugh—they’ve had this conversation, and variations of it, often enough. They’ve known each other since kindergarten, when Hermann was a scowling, spindly little girl and Newt was the short, always-mud-splattered girl who accidentally dropped a frog on her and led them to actually  _ talk _ (shout) for the first time, and they’ve been close ever since.

“I’m not sure  _ what _ he was expecting,” Hermann returns, after a moment; just as drily; “he tried the same idiocy with Karla, and  _ that _ just served to make her move to England and cut off contact with him as soon as she could.”

Karla, six years older than them, has only been gone for a year and a half, but it feels like far longer; Newt misses her—she was a good hugger, and let Newt talk about what was bothering him without judging, and able to give advice about it,  _ and _ she has, like, kickass style, unlike  _ Hermann _ —Newt’s of the opinion that Hermann brings down the average coolness factor of  _ Team Gottlieb Lesbians _ by a good three or four. 

He shakes himself from his thoughts; looks over at Hermann; frowns. The shivering’s back, which isn’t ideal. “Zip the jacket up,” he instructs, “and stick your hands in your pockets, for fuck’s sake, Herms.”

“Don’t call me that,” Hermann grumbles, but has the good sense to do as told. 

Newt digs through his pockets and pulls out his phone, unable to watch Hermann shiver for longer than a few beats; scrolls through his frankly absurdly large contacts list, seriously, what the fuck is  _ up _ with that, no one really hangs around with him, he has  _ no _ clue why he has their numbers, and taps his dad’s.

It rings a few times before it picks up. “Hey, dad,” Newt says, faux cheerfully, “how long til you get here?” There’s a silence. “Hermann’s shivering,” Newt adds, just in case, because Jacob  _ likes _ Hermann. 

There’s a sigh. “I’m five minutes out,” he says; and then, “don’t think that this means you’re getting out of a  _ conversation _ about this, Newt. You’re supposed to know better than this.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Newt says; and actually means it, even if it doesn’t seem like it, “um. Thanks, by the way, for...coming to get us.”

Jacob sighs again. “Yeah, kiddo,” he says, “‘course I was going to come get you. Now I’m gonna hang up so that I can concentrate on not hitting a patch of black ice or something.”

“Yep, ‘kay,” Newt nods, even though his dad can’t see it, and listens as the line goes dead; pockets the phone. “That was my dad,” he says, probably unnecessarily, to Hermann, “he should be here in five minutes.” He frowns. “Your lips are pretty blue, man, that’s not good.”

“I’ve done everything you told me too,” Hermann protests, “it’s not like I  _ asked _ to have awful circulation or anything.”

Newt huffs. “I’m going to hug you,” he says; and then, when Hermann’s face does a  _ Thing _ , adds, “chill, Hermann, we’ve hugged before, and anyway, this is for  _ body heat _ —trust me, man.”

“That’s what you said before you nearly burnt down the chemistry lab,” Hermann grumbles, but shifts a bit closer to Newt; lets him wrap his arms around him. He’s stiff in Newt’s embrace at first—Hermann’s not exactly a touchy-feely type, and Newt knows he doesn’t really know what to  _ do _ with human contact—, but after a moment, he relaxes a bit; moves one arm so he can curl into Newt, the other one holding his cane.

His breath puffs out, warmly, against the sliver of skin exposed where Newt’s got the top few buttons of his shirt popped, and, suddenly, it’s almost all Newt can focus on—Hermann, here, against him. Which, yeah, okay, isn’t exactly a  _ new  _ development, ‘cause Newt has had a crush on Hermann for like...two years, at this point, but  _ usually _ it doesn’t leave him speechless like this.

Tires crunch on gravel, and they both start; pulling away from each other, bathed in the sudden brightness of headlights; Hermann scrambles to his feet, and Newt follows; shades his eyes with his hand, and squints to try and see the car.

It takes a moment, but he recognises it; it’s Illia’s old truck, with his dad in the driver’s seat, and Newt grins; taps Hermann’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he says, “I’ll take the middle, and you can have passenger—that way your legs aren’t cramped up.”

Hermann doesn’t reply; just follows after him into the car.

“You look cold,” his dad comments as he jiggles the seatbelt-strap to get it unstuck.

“Yeah, we missed the last bus,” Newt replies, and, finally, gets it unstuck with a triumphant  _ hah! _ “We’ve been outside for like twenty minutes—negative three out of ten, would  _ not _ recommend.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jacob says, drily. “Hermann, you all strapped in?”

“Yes, Mister Geiszler, sir,” Hermann nods; shifting his grip on his cane from hand to hand.

Jacob backs out a bit before turning back onto the main road. “It’s Jacob, Hermann,” he reminds him, “really, Mister Geiszler makes it sound like I’m in the principal’s office or something.”

Hermann murmurs an apology. Jacob waves it off. “It’s right after the supermarket, yeah?” he asks, and Hermann nods.

“And then straight for two lights, and turn left, yes,” he adds. “My father won’t be home yet, but I have a key, so you can just drop me off in the driveway. Ah—I forgot to say, er...thank you, Mister G— _ Jacob _ .”

Jacob smiles. “Anything for Newt’s friends,” he says, easily, and, when Hermann looks out the window, has the gall to wink at Newt. Newt scowls and cranks the heater all the way up, and turns on the radio to the 80’s rock station, ignoring Hermann’s protests about how  _ that isn’t even music, Newton, that’s barely  _ sound.

When they pull up in front of the Gottlieb residence, Hermann gets out; begins to walk up towards the door. Newt watches after, just in case— _ what _ , he doesn’t know.

His dad catches sight of the expression; snorts. “You’re really gone on Hermann, huh,” he says, as he backs out—the Gottliebs live on a cul de sac, and you can’t exactly do a u-turn with how the road is built, “you should—” 

Whatever he’s going to say next is cut off as Hermann comes nearly running after them. Jacob brings the car to a stop; waits for Hermann to catch up and wrench the door open. “I...forgot...to give you back...your jacket,” Hermann half-wheezes, pulling it off as quickly as he can with only one hand, fingers struggling with the zipper for a moment before he gets it, and hands it to Newt.

“Thanks,” Newt says, and becomes horrifically aware that he’s staring at Hermann, and quickly looks down at the floor. “Um. Good night, Hermann.”

“Good-night, Newton,” Hermann says, “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The door slams behind him, and Newt draws the jacket up to his chest, closing his eyes, and only half-imagining the warmth of the leather to the touch. “So gone,” Jacob says.

“Shut up,” Newt grumbles.

“Alright, alright.” He raises his hands, for a moment, in a placating gesture. “Anyway, you and me need to have a  _ talk _ , mister. You stayed out past curfew—”

“Only by an hour!” Newt protests, and then shrinks in on himself a bit when Jacob glares.

“You stayed out past curfew,  _ and _ didn’t call me when you were supposed to check in—I was worried out of my  _ mind _ , Newt.”

“Sorry,” Newt mutters, after a moment; cowed. He really  _ should _ have checked in when they agreed he would, but he got caught up in exploring the little cluster of shops open late in the night with Hermann, and, well, things spiralled.

Jacob sighs. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, “just...do better next time.”

“Okay,” Newt half-whispers.

“And you’re grounded for the next week. No going anywhere that’s not home or school—this can’t keep happening, Newt, I’m at the end of my line.”

“ _ Dad! _ ” Newt exclaims, “that’s not fair, I’ve got robotics club with Hermann, and I have to meet up with the band for rehearsal—”

“Then you should have thought of that  _ before _ you decided to not only not check in, but also miss curfew,” Jacob says, flatly.

“...fine.” Newt tightens his grip on the jacket. “ _ Fine _ . Any  _ other _ things you want to drop on me out of the blue, or is that it,  _ dad? _ ”

Jacob lets out a sharp exhale. “Actually,  _ yes _ ,” he says. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, but...Illia and I have been talking about it for a while, and we finally decided for sure...” he trails off, and Newt tenses; suddenly expecting the worst. “We’re moving to Boston on the twenty-ninth,” he says, “the plane tickets are already bought, and I’ve talked to the school.”

“You’re  _ kidding _ —that’s barely in two weeks! Boston—dad, that’s all the way in the USA!”

“I  _ know _ where Boston is, Newt,” Jacob snaps. “And it’s non-negotiable—we both got good job offers there, and you  _ know _ the market for piano tuners here isn’t what it used to be.”

“But...but...” Newt trails off into silence. His eyes are stinging, and he stares out the window, blinks to try and quell the emotions rising heavily in his chest. In two short weeks, he’ll be on the other side of the world, away from everything he’s known all his life—the cinemas, the  _ Imbiss’ _ es; the Friday nights with Hermann in town, eating ice-cream in the summer. God— _ Hermann _ .

He lets out a half-choked sob; grips the jacket tighter, and refuses to look at his dad.

Jacob sighs. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he says, and reaches out to pat Newt’s shoulder. Newt curls away from the touch.

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he snaps. “You should keep both hands on the steering wheel, dad.”

He spends the next two days pointedly avoiding any mention of the topic; unfortunately, the fact that he has to pack makes that a little hard. He winds up tearing up when he has to chose between two different kaiju posters to take, and decides to just take a break for a bit and come back to it later, and pulls the carton of ice cream out from the freezer and puts on Jurassic Park and forgets about it for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, Monday comes way sooner than it really should, and then he’s reminded of it the instant he sees Hermann, and then, a moment later, realises,  _ fuck, I have to tell Hermann _ , which is easier said than  _ done _ .

They may share four out of nine subjects, and anywhere from two to three classes depending on the day, but every time Hermann sits down in his seat by Newt’s side, Newt finds he can’t physically  _ say _ anything, and so he keeps putting it off.

The last day before the flight, Newt, out of some desperate need to—what, god, see Hermann smiling one last time, invites Hermann out to town for an ice-cream. Hermann, as usual, puts up a token protest, but folds in under a minute.

“Only because you’re paying,” he says.

Newt laughs. “Sure, man, whatever you say,” he replies. “C’mon—the place I wanna take you to closes at eight.” He offers Hermann a smile, and hopes that it doesn’t look as pained as it feels—this is the last time he’ll see Hermann.

Newt orders a blue-coloured ice-cream with chocolate-chip cookie-dough chunks in it that’s advertised as “Cookie Monster” and Hermann orders french vanilla, like the grandpa he is deep, deep down.

“It’s a perfectly respectable flavour!” Hermann protests, as they walk towards the building where Hermann has his meeting with the math team. They’re going to international, this year, not in any small part because Hermann’s really pulled them all together,  _ and _ he’s absolutely brilliant with math.

“Sure,” Newt snorts, and takes a bite from his ice-cream.

Hermann makes a face at him. “Doesn’t that hurt your teeth?” he asks.

“Nope,” Newt replies, and sticks his tongue out. “Is it blue yet?”

The other rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “though that can hardly be good for you—hang on, you’ve got, ah—”

He shoves his cone at Newt, who takes it without comment; digs around in his pockets, pulling out a handkerchief, and Newt bites back a comment on that. Hermann takes a step forward; raises his hand; pauses, tongue caught between his teeth, and then reaches out to wipe away something from the corner of Newt’s mouth, his touch gentle. Newt’s breath catches. 

“You had ice-cream on the side of your mouth,” Hermann says; quiet; and folds the handkerchief, tucking it back into his pocket, and takes his cone back, all without looking away from Newt, and then he bites his lip, something uncertain flickering across his expression, and—

—kisses Newt, quick and chaste.

Newt gapes at him silently for a moment; and then, in utterly Geiszlerian luck, blurts, “Hermann, I have to go.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, his expression shuttering, and he turns away, step quick, and disappears into the building, leaving Newt half-dazed, ice-cream melting slowly, the memory of Hermann’s lips on his own.

It’s only ten hours later, on a plane bound for Boston, that Newt realises, in horror, that he didn’t actually  _ tell _ Hermann where—or  _ why _ —he was going.

He riffles through his bag, looking for his phone—he’ll, he’ll call Hermann when he lands, explain what happened—

Nothing.

His phone isn’t in his carry-on.

He remembers, with sudden clarity, that he’d forgotten to charge it the night before, and Illia had to wake him up—and then he  _ left it on the nightstand _ in the rush out the door. That’s where he has all of the numbers—the only ones he has memorised are Illia and Jacob’s, in case of an emergency, and he has no way to find Hermann’s number again to try and call him from another phone.

Oh,  _ god _ . Fuck _. Fuck _ .

* * *

_ Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid, Hermann chants as he sits in his chair at the head of the table. He tossed the ice-cream cone into the rubbish bin on the way in, unable to bear to have it around any longer. 

The other members are saying something—discussing the upcoming tourney, probably; that’s the whole reason they’re meeting, anyway, because the tourney is next weekend, but Hermann can barely hear what they’re saying, nevermind understand it; he’s too caught up in the memory of Newton standing, frozen, before him.

God.  _ God _ . He can’t believe what an idiot he’s been—Newton doesn’t return his feelings, of  _ course _ he doesn’t, and Hermann just  _ kissed _ him—good grief. Things are going to be horribly tense between them; what if Newton decides he doesn’t want their friendship to continue?

That would be his choice, of course, and Hermann would respect it,  _ of course _ he would, but. God. He doesn’t want that.

Tomorrow, he resolves, he’ll pull Newton aside during lunch, and apologise; tell him it was just a mistake, and that it’ll never happen again. Yes—that’s what he’ll do. He shakes himself out of his thoughts and tries to pay attention to what’s being said, and is even marginally successful.

That’s all good and well, until the next day comes, and Newton isn’t in any of his classes. Asking the other students yields nothing—none of them have seen him either. That, at least, assuages his worry that Newton has been avoiding him, specifically, but heightens his worry in  _ general _ —Newton isn’t one to miss his classes. He’ll sleep through them, or ignore the instructor, but he never  _ skips _ them.

By the end of the day, Hermann hasn’t seen Newton, and his worry is nearly through the roof.

After classes, he catches the bus to the bus stop by Newton’s house; it’s a bit of a walk, but he’s been doing his stretches, and the roads aren’t iced over this early in the autumn, thank God. The car isn’t in the driveway when he gets there, but that’s not unusual—Mister Gei—Jacob or Newt’s uncle Illia might have taken it to go run some errands.

He takes a steadying breath; presses the doorbell.

It rings for a few seconds and then goes silent. There’s no sound of movement from inside.

He bites his lip; digs out his phone; dials Newton’s number. 

_ We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try again— _

Hermann ends the call; stands there, for a few moments, silent, phone gripped in one hand, shaking, and presses his eyes shut. He’ll...he’ll see Newton again. He  _ has _ to—they go to the same  _ Gymnasium, _ after all, it’s not like Newton can avoid him forever. 

Hell, Newton probably isn’t even  _ avoiding _ him—he might have just gone with Jacob and Illia to the store, and forgotten to charge his phone; that wouldn’t surprise Hermann—it’s hardly an uncommon occurrence, though, usually, Newton isn’t...hasn’t...

He swallows thickly. He might as well say it—usually, it’s not under circumstances such as  _ this _ . Usually, Newton isn’t being kissed by a childhood friend in whom he has no interest—

He lets out a sharp, unintentional cry; smothers it behind his hand as quickly as he can. He mustn’t—he mustn’t—

Unexpected, tears fall down his cheeks, and, for the moment, he lets them; standing there in front of the empty Geiszler residence.

Newton isn’t in class the next day; or, for that matter, for the rest of the week. After the first three days, Hermann stops trying to call—he’s left a few messages in Newton’s voice-mail, but a lack of reply is a clear indicator that Newton doesn’t want to talk.

He can’t help but feel bitter, though—to have lost Newton like this. It leaves an ache beneath his sternum that makes it hard to sleep at night.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, and months into years, and Hermann doesn’t hear hide nor hair of Newton Geiszler, and so, eventually, he accepts that he never will.

* * *

“Dad,” Newt says, “have you seen my iguana tie?”

“No,” calls Jacob, from the kitchen. “Why would it be here, anyway? And why do you need it—isn’t this a science-y conference?”

Newt checks underneath the armchair. “I think I left it here when I stayed over on Thanksgiving,” he says, “and I  _ need _ my iguana tie, dad, I’ve gotta be  _ cool _ .”

“Good luck with  _ that _ ,” Illia huffs. “You’d have more luck trying to not talk at a hundred miles an hour.”

“Hey!” Newt says, “I resent that—I’m plenty cool! I have  _ six  _ doctorates, uncle Illia, I’m like, six times as cool as ninety percent of the people there!”

Jacob reappears into the living room. “I found your tie,” he says, holding it out to Newt. “And your uncle is right—I love you, Newt, but  _ cool _ would not be something that you generally are good at being, especially  _ intentionally _ .”

Newt scowls; takes the tie. “I hate you both,” he says; and then: “thanks for packing the pie for me, dad.”

“You weren’t supposed to know— _ Illia _ ,” Jacob admonishes, turning on his brother, who just shrugs. Jacob lets out a deep, put-upon sigh. “You’re both awful,” he says. “And Newt, don’t eat all of that pie while you’re waiting in the terminal—save some of it for the flight. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“Alright, alright, I will,” Newt says, “I gotta go, now.”

“Not before we get our hugs in,” Illia reminds him, and draws him into a crushing embrace that leaves Newt half-wheezing. As soon as he lets go and steps back, Jacob takes his place.

When he lets go, Newt takes a moment to breathe. “I can’t believe you guys are trying to kill me,” he pants, and picks up his carry-on, slinging it over his shoulder, and grabs his suitcase.

Jacob and Illia laugh. “Bye, Newt,” his uncle says.

“Knock it out of the park, bugboy,” Jacob adds.

Newt rolls his eyes. “It’s a convention, dad, like Comic-Con, but for science, I’m not presenting anything.” Still, though, he’s smiling as he opens the door and steps outside to put his suitcase into the trunk of the rental.

The drive to the airport is surprisingly unhindered—traffic, for once, is actually not that bad (for Boston, anyway) so he gets there with about twenty minutes until the flight after getting through TSA, and finds his gate pretty easily.

He eats a piece and a half of the pie Illia and his dad made for him, and then manages to stop himself before that becomes  _ two _ pieces and then  _ three  _ and then  _ all four _ , because, yeah, he wants to save a piece to have on the plane. 

The plane ride is okay; he mostly spends it watching films in the in-flight entertainment; when he lands, he picks his suitcase up from the luggage claim area and texts Illia and Jacob a quick  _ hey, i got here fine <3 _ and then goes to one of the help centre desks to ask for directions to his hotel.

His German’s a bit rusty, and he can tell that the woman behind the desk is wincing internally at his American accent, but she’s nice enough, and after about ten minutes, Newt’s figured out how to get to his hotel.

He takes the shuttle to his hotel and half collapses into his bed, barely managing to change out of his clothes and into a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He calls Jacob and Illia up once he does, though, and chats with them for a bit over the last two pieces of pie.

“You liked it, then?” Jacob asks.

“Uh,  _ yeah _ ,” Newt says, and spears another bite of the pie. “This is kind of, um, my dinner,” he admits, sheepishly. 

The two give him an unimpressed look in tandem. “ _ Newt _ ,” Illia admonishes. 

Newt holds up his hands. “Hey!” he protests, “I ate on the plane, too—got one of the vegetarian noodle thingies they were offering. I’m just too tired to go hunting for, like, actual food right now—it’s  _ late _ .”

“Fine,” Illia sighs, “you should get to bed.”

“Probably,” Newt agrees, and finishes off the pie. “G’night, guys, I love you.”

“Love you too, Newt,” Jacob and Illia chorus, and then the screen goes dark. Newt sticks the fork into the tuperware container and puts the lid back on, shoving it back into his carry-on, and then gets under the covers, plugging his phone in and sticking it on the nightstand.

The door opens—probably the room-mate they assigned him; Newt, and, apparently, a lot of the people attending the convention couldn’t afford the hotels in the city for the three days the convention runs, so, as a solution, a few months ago, the group hosting the convention put up a form to sign up for room-mates.

“The light’s on your left,” he calls, feeling slightly, but not very, bad for turning off the lights.

There’s a displeased huff, and then the light flicks on to reveal a tallish man wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on a chain around his neck. He’s got a suitcase in one hand, and a cane in the other, and he’s scowling—at Newt, or something else, Newt doesn’t know.

He doesn’t speak, just lugs his suitcase over to the side of the other bed and disappears into the bathroom, which is fine by Newt, honestly, who was already half-asleep when Mystery Room-mate walked in, and is now on the way to  _ fully-asleep _ .

* * *

Hermann’s awake before the man he’s rooming with; partially due to jet-lag, but also because he wants to get his stretches done before the other wakes. It’s not that he’s  _ embarrassed _ , exactly, but he’d just rather not have questioning, prying eyes on him as he goes through them.

The man gives no indication of waking up, though, so when eight-thirty comes around (the first panel is at nine), Hermann gets changed and heads out the door, leaving the man behind him.

He’s got two panels back to back in the morning, and then an hour break between those two and a panel about mathematical and theoretical biology, and then a two-hour break between that and his last panel of the day, which is on the possibilities of extraterrestrial life.

The first two are theoretical physics and quantum mechanics, and Hermann takes about nine pages of neatly-written notes for each. He stays after to ask some extra questions, so by the time he’s done, he only has half an hour to eat lunch. Normally, he’d go out and order something, but the time that would take would be cutting it closer than he really wants to.

Instead, he wanders around for about fifteen minutes, and then makes for the room where the panel on mathematical and theoretical biology is being held.

He’s about to turn the corner when a short, bespeckled, wild-haired man practically knocks him off his feet. Hermann rights himself, scowling, and takes a second look, recognising the man as the one he’s rooming with. “ _ You _ again?” he snaps.

The man looks up at him, his expression twisting into annoyance. “Hey, maybe you shouldn’t stand in the middle of the room,” he snaps.

“I  _ wasn’t _ ,” Hermann protests; “ _ you _ weren’t watching where you were going.”

The other sneers at him. “This is a stupid conversation,” he says, and brushes past Hermann.

Hermann rolls his eyes and continues into the room.

There’s a few people already there, and, over the next ten minutes, more trickle in—enough that, by the time there’s only a few minutes until starting, there’s few empty seats, which wouldn’t be an  _ issue _ if not for the fact that the man from earlier is currently standing by Hermann, looking questioningly at the open seat by his side.

Hermann sighs. “Fine, go ahead,” he says, and the man grins and sits down.

They don’t talk—the man and Hermann are both too focused on taking their own notes on the panellists’ discussions and replies to questions from the audience. Once or twice, Hermann gets a peek at the other’s writing—horribly illegible, but somehow, familiar, and with the ease with which he follows, Hermann assumes he’s familiar with the field.

After, as the panellists and the audience leave, the man rises, turning to Hermann. “Hey,” he says, “thanks for letting me take the seat next to you, man. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Hermann nods.

The man sticks his hand out. “Newt Geiszler,” he says, “MIT. I’m your room-mate, too, but you already knew that.”

Hermann’s breath stutters; lungs filling with painful, icy shards. “N— _ Newton? _ ” he chokes.

Newton frowns. “Yeah, it’s short for Newton,” he says, “like, um, like—”

“Isaac Newton,” Hermann finishes, flatly; feeling, hollow; and then, after a beat,  _ angry _ . 

Newton reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, dude, are you okay—?”

“Don’t  _ touch _ me!” Hermann cries, flinching away, “don’t—don’t  _ touch _ me, Newton—I—” He realises, suddenly, that they’re in a public space; flushes and hunches his shoulders, walking as quickly as he can away from the other.

The rest of the day passes with Hermann in a half-dazed state. Thankfully, he doesn’t have any more panels with Newton, but he can’t shake the meeting with the other earlier. God—he hasn’t seen the other in almost fifteen years; he thought he’d gotten over the pain of that loss, but apparently, not as much as he had thought.

Unfortunately, they  _ do _ share a hotel room, and Hermann has to go back at some point. He staves it off as long as he can by wandering around the building in which the convention is held, and gets dinner at one of the nearby restaurants, but, eventually, he has to return.

He gets into the elevator and presses the button for the third floor. Something vaguely pop-rock plays at a slowed-down pace from the speakers as the elevator rises. He tries not to feel too apprehensive and ultimately, and unsurprisingly, fails at it.

The walk down the hallway to the room seems to take forever; the carpeting stretching on infinitely. Finally, though, he reaches the door; swipes the card to unlock it.

The door opens with a soft  _ squeak _ of hinges, and Hermann adjusts his grip on the cane and walks in, shoulders squared. Newton’s sitting on his bed, typing away on his laptop, and when Hermann enters, he looks up; scowls. 

Hermann purses his lips. “I...apologise for earlier,” he says; the words slightly painful as they pass his lips. “I didn’t...didn’t intend to react the way I did. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” Newton says. “I don’t know what I did to make you flip out like that, but—yeah. Whatever.”

“I...” Hermann takes a deep breath. “Newton, I’m Hermann Gottlieb,” he says; after a beat. “We...knew each other as children. I was just—I was surprised to see you, is all. I apologise for my reaction, again.”

Newton gapes at him. “ _ Hermann? _ ” he says, “holy  _ shit _ , dude, I haven’t seen you in, what—”

“Thirteen years, yes,” Hermann says.  _ Thirteen years, one hundred and twenty days, and about nine hours. Not that I’ve been counting, or anything _ . 

“Thirteen years,” Newton repeats, “dude, we—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hermann says, and goes over to his own bed, taking his nightclothes out from where he folded and put them away in his suitcase, and rises, heading for the bathroom. Newton, behind him, is silent—thank God. Hermann has no interest in dredging up the past  _ now. _

When he gets out from the bathroom, Newton’s under the covers and has his bedside lamp turned off, his glasses perched beneath its base, so Hermann does his best to get into bed quietly.

The next morning, Newton’s gone when he wakes up; Hermann has no idea why, but he isn’t about to complain.

The rest of the day passes without incident, and he doesn’t even run into Newton, for which he’s grateful—at least, until he decides to explore the upper levels of the building later in the evening.

Through a, frankly, slightly confusing sequence of events, he winds up on a balcony with Newton Geiszler his only company.

He scowls and tries the door handle. Nothing—it’s been locked all of the previous times he tried it, too. “The door’s locked,” Newton says, unnecessarily. “I think it’s because of the power outage—the lights inside are off, and I  _ know _ for a fact that they keep these lights on until, like,  _ two _ .”

Hermann doesn’t reply; just curls in on himself slightly, accepting that he won’t be able to get back inside for a while. The temperature is dropping, but he figures that if he curls in on himself, it’ll lessen the bite of it a bit.

“You look kind of cold, dude,” Newton says.

“Such an  _ astute _ observation,” Hermann says; aiming for sarcasm, but the effect is ruined as his teeth begin to chatter.

Newton frowns; tugs off his jacket. “Here,” he says, “it’s leather. It’ll keep you warm.”

“I—” Hermann remembers, suddenly, sitting on a bus-stop bench with Newton, wrapped in a similar jacket, years ago, and swallows, thickly. “Won’t you get cold?” he says, instead.

Newton shrugs. “I run hot,” he says, and holds the jacket out.

A few beats pass, and then Hermann takes it; tugging it on with stiff fingers. He’s feeling nostalgic, apparently, and before he realises it, words are tumbling past his lips. “You never did tell me why or where you were going.”

Newton winces. “...yeah,” he says, and swallows; throat bobbing with the action, and doesn’t meet Hermann’s gaze. “I...I meant to, but...I only gathered up the courage to, um, to actually  _ tell _ you that we were moving like, the day before I had to get on the flight to Boston, and then you ran off, and...” He trails off.

Hermann’s cheeks burn at the memory. “You could have called,” he says, instead, “I...I tried calling you.”

Newton laughs. “God,” he says, “I—my phone died, and then I forgot it in the house before we got on the plane, and—and I didn’t have your number  _ memorised _ , and—”

“Breathe,” Hermann instructs; and Newton does; once, twice, calming a bit. “I didn’t know,” he says.

Newton offers a thin smile. “It was a hell of a week,” he says. “The person I’d been crushing on for years kissed me, and then the next day I had to get on a plane and fly across the world, and I never even  _ told _ you.”

“...you had a  _ crush _ on me?” Hermann asks.

Newton lets out a laugh this time. “Yeah,” he says, “it was probably pretty obvious—I, um, I kind of figured you kissed me out of pity, because you wanted to, like, put it to rest, or something—”

“Ridiculous,” Hermann snaps. “I  _ assure _ you, I was  _ not _ doing it out of pity.”

Newton’s gaping at him, for the second time in as many days. “Holy shit,” he whispers after a moment. “Wait, so you’re saying—”

“Your lips are blue,” Hermann interrupts. “Come over here—this jacket can cover both of us, and being close will promote warmth via body heat.” 

Newton does, after a moment; presses up against Hermann’s side. “I missed you, you know,” he murmurs; face only inches from Hermann’s; breath creating a white mist in the cold air as he exhales, and—

The lights inside come on; the doors pulled open. “Sorry you got locked out,” says a sheepish woman whom Hermann recognises from a panel the day before. Newt and he scramble apart; Hermann pulls his arm out of the jacket sleeve he got it into in the time they were waiting outside, and watches as Newton pulls it over himself.

The panellist senses the awkwardness between them, and is kind enough to just prop the door open with a doorjamb and disappear back inside.

Hermann licks his lips. “Will I...will I see you again?”

_ Newt _ , he means;  _ will I see  _ Newt _ again—? Not Newton, but Newt—Newt, who I knew years ago, and loved, maybe, just a bit, before I knew what that really meant; who maybe loved me back, a bit? _

Newton grins. “I think we have a panel together, tomorrow,” he says, “uh—something about nanotech? At, like, noon?”

“Yes,” Hermann nods. “I’ll—I’ll save a seat for you?”

“Sweet,” Newton says, “now let’s get inside before we both catch a cold and die.” 

Hermann huffs, and follows after him, closing the door after them.

The next day, Newton’s gone again by the time Hermann gets up, but that’s expected; he’s got an early-morning panel on marine biology he’s attending. As the nanotech panel draws closer, Hermann’s excitement—and apprehension—rises.

He gets there early; Newton’s not there yet, which is expected; Hermann’s never known him to be someone who runs on the  _ early _ side of being on time, so he just settles himself in a seat at the end of one of the rows, and sets his notebook in the seat by his side.

As ten, then fifteen, and then twenty minutes pass, though, and Newton doesn’t appear, Hermann begins to worry—has Newton decided against it after all? Is he avoiding Hermann? God—this feels like thirteen years ago all over again, with Hermann  _ waiting _ , and Newton never appearing.

Newton doesn’t turn up, and since Hermann doesn’t have any more panels to attend, he decides to return to the hotel room. Newton’s not there—his suitcase is, though, so Hermann assumes he’s out in the city or something.

He sits on the bed; pulls his phone out. For a moment, he considers calling Newton, and then remembers he doesn’t have the other’s number.

Well—there’s nothing to do other than  _ wait _ , then, is there?

Five hours later, as he’s finishing up dinner, courtesy of room service, the door handle creaks and turns. Newton walks in, three plasters on his face, and an ice-pack clutched against his shoulder.

Hermann gasps; all the irritation he was feeling towards the other evaporating instantly. “Newton—are you alright?”

“Y—yeah,” Newton croaks, and makes it to the bed, laying down gingerly. “Sorry I, um, sorry I missed the panel. I took the bus downtown to go get something to eat after my first panel, but, um, on the way back, the bus got into a fucking  _ fender-bender _ . No one got hurt too bad, don’t worry, but I got thrown out of my seat and hit my head and passed out, so they held me in a hospital room with a few other passengers for a bit.”

“Oh,” Hermann says; and lets out a relieved breath. “I’m...I’m glad you’re okay. I, um—”

“You thought I skipped,” Newton guesses; correctly, and Hermann winces, an apology on his lips. “Don’t,” he says, “I get it.”

“...I took notes on the nanotech panel,” Hermann says; instead; and rises; moving to the side of Newton’s bed. Newton pats the space beside him in a clear invitation to sit down, and Hermann takes it. “Ah. I’ll...scan and email them to you later, if you want. Er—I don’t have your email, though...” 

Newton laughs. “I’ll give it to you,” he says, and sets the ice-pack down, leaning against Hermann’s shoulder. “And then maybe we can...write? I dunno, if you want, I mean.”

“I...I would,” Hermann says; softly; and they’re like  _ this _ , again, faces mere centimetres from the other’s. “I—”

Newton cants his head up and leans in and kisses him.

Hermann melts a bit into the kiss; inelegant, to be sure, but he’s hardly concerned with  _ that _ . When Newton pulls away, he says, quietly; “Hermann,” as if for the first time, and drops his head to Hermann’s chest; says, again, like he’s holding the sound against him: “ _ Hermann _ .”

Hermann can see the corner of the curve of Newton’s smile; and he smiles, too; wraps his arms around the other, mindful of the arm he was holding the cold pack against, and lets the silence between them fade into a comforting, unspoken language.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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